“Enough to…”
by trascendenza
Summary: Takes place after the original ending. Ennis, Lureen, Mrs. Twist and Alma Jr. say goodbye in their own ways.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer:** I don't own these characters, but it sure feels like they own me. (Way to go, Ms. Proulx ;)

**Author's Note:** So here's my second attempt at fanfic. I was inspired by all these other wonderful pieces I've been reading. The other AU piece I wrote was more just to imagine some kind of happy ending for the guys, but this one really means a lot to me and I would appreciate any kind of feedback you guys have to offer (even negative, as long as you're not too mean about it :). I really enjoyed writing this part about Lureen; she just sort of showed up in my head early one morning when I was trying to fall asleep and this is the result.

At my profile there are links for images I have created to accompany my stories.

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Lureen might have been a lot of things, but stupid was not one of them. She had to smile to herself sometimes when Jack would get so excited about his trips, thinking that Lureen had no clue about what was really going on, no clue why suddenly Jack was back in their bed rubbing up against her like an animal in heat. When they first married she might have been jealous, sad to see Jack smiling like a fool and singing tunes when he thought she wasn't paying attention. But by now she'd had her own share of nights away from home when Jack was on the road. As long as he was a good daddy to their boy, and kept up his end of the marriage she wouldn't bother him.

Lureen wasn't sure what made this woman so special to Jack. Sometimes she wondered out of idle curiosity if the woman had a traveling husband, whether she disguised her handwriting when she sent the postcards, whether Jack knew her from his youth. Ennis sure was a funny name for a woman, but that had to be her name because Jack mumbled it in his sleep. Maybe a nickname for Eunice? Lureen could see why a sensible woman wouldn't want to go by that godawful name. She didn't have much time to ponder these things anymore with the business growing the way it was. She started to file the information away under her topics to ponder on a rainy day.

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"Lureen, have you seen my blue parka?"

"The last time I saw it you was in it…that day we had the big ice storm."

"Well, I could of swore I left it here."

Lureen decided to make Jack squirm a little. "You know you been goin' up to Wyoming all these years, why can't your buddy come down here to Texas and fish?"

"Well, for one thing, the Big Horn Mountains ain't in Texas. Don't think his pickup would make it anyways." Pretty smooth. Jack was getting better with his lying.

"New models comin' in this week, remember. You're the best combine salesman we got. You're the only combine salesman we got." Sometimes Lureen wished the men would take her more seriously, but if they would buy from her there was nothing she could do about it.

"I'll be back in a week. That is, I will be unless I freeze to death, which I might if I don't find that parka."

"Well, I don't have your damn parka. I swear you're worse than Bobby when it comes to losin' things."

"Speakin' a Bobby, have you called the school about gettin' him a tutor?"

Lureen bit her lip, and tried to deflect the question. "I thought you were goin' to."

"No, I complain too much and that teacher don't like me. Now it's your turn."

"Well, I'll do it later." _Later when I'm good and ready, damn you, _she thought_. Bobby don't need no tutor._

After Jack had left, Lureen stopped entering numbers into her machine. This little niggling doubt kept worming its way into her concentration. When did Jack get so good at lying? She had been dead serious when she told him he was worse than Bobby sometimes. He was always forgetting things, losing things, missing the little details. But his details were always perfect when it came to Ennis. What if he really was an old friend? _Nah_, she decided_, that Ennis must just be a real good coach_. She went back to her numbers; she had to finish them in by the end of the day and she'd already wasted too much time on things that weren't her business.

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The second time her daddy went to turn the TV on, Jack shouted, "You sit down, you old son of a bitch! This is my house. This is my child and you are my guest. So sit the hell down or I'll knock your ignorant ass into next week."

Lureen felt her lips quiver, and she fought down the smile. She nodded at Bobby to eat his meal, and once her parents were over the shock, they actually had a pretty nice Thanksgiving. She smiled at Jack, proud of the man she had chosen. Didn't matter that he wasn't perfect; he did right by her.

After her folks were gone and Bobby was in bed, Lureen poured Jack a whiskey and a glass of wine for herself. Sidling up next to him on the couch, she said, "Happy Thanksgiving, Jack. I had a real good night."

Jack smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. "I'm glad, Lureen. I got a set a good example for Bobby."

"You tired, baby? Let's get to bed and I'll rub your shoulders for you."

"Thanks, honey. I'm so tired I can't hardly see straight."

Jack hadn't been lying. After Lureen had loosened up some of his muscles, he dropped like a stone. She propped up on her elbow, looking at him while he slept, smoothing the crease between his eyebrows with her finger. He hadn't been sleeping too well lately, drinking himself to bed most nights. She was almost tempted to ask what was wrong, see if there was something she could do to help. But Jack was not one to keep his complaints to himself; he gave them away as freely as his charming smiles. If he was keeping it to himself, there must be no point in talking about it, and she would respect that. She gave him a quick kiss on the forehead and settled in to bed.

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"Hello?"

"Hello, ma'am? This is Ennis del Mar."

_No. I must have heard wrong. _ "Who? Who is this?"

"Ennis del Mar. I was an old friend of Jack's."

Lureen wasn't sure how she managed to get through the rest of the conversation. The words and meanings were all a blur in her mind. It seemed as if this man had taken the life she had known with Jack, all the moments, the observations, the so-called truth, the bare essence of what they had been together, and ripped it all to pieces so she couldn't even recognize the picture anymore. Some part of her brain kept her speaking like a normal human being, instead of yelling WHY, WHY, WHY at this man who was telling her about Brokeback Mountain, talking about _her_ Jack like he was.

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She looked at the plaque that had Jack's name, his dates, and "Loving father and husband" inscribed on it. She had written the father part first on purpose; she laughed bitterly at that now. She wanted to yell at what was left of Jack, to call him every dirty word she could come up with, beat her fists into his ashes until there were none left. She wanted to walk into Jack's waiting arms, have his head resting on top of hers, feel his smile through her hair, hear the laughter rumble in his chest.

"Jack, I cain't even think straight no more. Look what you're doin' a me, even when you're… when you're…"

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Over the years, Lureen managed to find a semblance of normalcy. She pushed the unwanted knowledge deep, deep down, and never dredged it up again. Still, she found herself turning down the offers of the men around town, staring long hours at her papers without reading a word, waking up feeling like she hadn't managed more than five minutes' rest.

Bobby came into the office carrying the mail. He was a strong young man now, her beautiful boy. He was already moving up in the business, showing more ambition than Jack ever had.

"Whatcha got for me, Bobby?"

"I thought this was interestin'. It's from Mrs. Twist. Her husband kicked the bucket last month."

"Bobby, that's not very polite… John Twist, you say? Lemme see that."

She looked at the note from Jack's momma, written in shaky script, short and to the point. There was going to be a small service next week.

"You wanna go to this, Bobby? They is your grandparents, after all, even though we ain't never met them."

"I already got a conference on that day. And I ain't never met the man, so I don't mind payin' my respects if you want me to, but I'd feel mighty strange goin' up there."

"That's fine, son. I think Mrs. Twist will understand."

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She tried to go to sleep. That was the funny thing about sleep, it always ran away like a scared rabbit when you really needed it. The knowledge that she had tried so hard to bury was roaring in her ears, pounding like a drum in her head; she tossed and turned as if she could escape it through sheer force of will. The note seemed to be giving off an ethereal glow, sitting on her nightstand like a malevolent presence.

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She watched the road, occasionally glanced at the metal box on the passenger seat, sure that she had finally fallen asleep and entered into a strange dreamland. But she clearly remembered rising from bed, leaving Bobby a very ambiguous note, talking to the confused man who couldn't understand what she wanted with her husband's ashes. Her money shut him up quick enough, stopped the questions that she couldn't answer.

"Jack, you're enough to drive a damn woman crazy, you know that?"

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Mrs. Twist stood in the doorway, a faceless entity framed in the light of the kitchen. Lureen had always wondered how Jack had made these long drives so easily, yet here she was and she wasn't even sure if she had stopped once.

"Can I help you?"

"My name's Lureen, ma'am, we've never met, but…"

"Oh, my, come in, come in. I hope I didn't send you the wrong thing; the service isn't until Thursday."

"No, I just..." Lureen lifted the receptacle into the light, "I just thought you might know what to do with this."

Mrs. Twist took it all in; the metallic container all too similar to the one she had, the tears threatening to spill from Lureen's bloodshot eyes, the time of night. She pulled Lureen over to the couch, placed Jack's ashes on the sideboard, and took the poor girl into her arms.

"Hush now, hush my dear."

Lureen's grief had swelled so fiercely and unexpectedly that she did not resist. Her pain was raw, her sense of betrayal and confusion overpowering. She felt a blinding rage, mostly at herself. But, for first time in many years, a weight began to lift from her spirit; a burning constriction loosened from her chest. It almost felt good, to give in, give reign to the hurt… to let go, to just…_ let be._


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Note:** Wasn't quite so happy with this section as the first one, but I decided it's serviceable. I really enjoy writing about Mrs. Twist.

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Lureen talked to Mrs. Twist until her throat was hoarse and her voice was little more than a whisper, until there were no more tears to be wrung, no more secrets to be hidden; she admitted that she hadn't cried for Jack, that sometimes she still pretended he would be coming home soon from a trip, that she hadn't even thought of confronting him about his affairs. Mrs. Twist offered no judgment, no advice; she gave her ears, her sympathy, and the understanding of another woman who had just lost her husband, and Lureen started to think maybe she wasn't insane, after all. Maybe she was going to be okay.

As the first light of dawn bled into the sky, Lureen drifted into a deep, dreamless sleep. Mrs. Twist moved slowly, tucking a blanket around Lureen and shutting the drapes to keep the light off of her. With quiet purpose, she went to her bedroom and took Jack's ashes down from the shelf; the wood looked naked and pale when she removed it, much like her husband's side of the bed that still held his imprint. This bedroom told its story in its missing parts.

Although John had been a stubborn man, and wouldn't let Ennis have the ashes, he knew where to draw the line. Mrs. Twist's will was like a small stream of water working against rock; at first, no changes were visible in the rock face, but by the time the water was done you had a whole new landscape—silent, powerful, and inevitable.

She also took down the framed photo of Jack, running her thumb along the edge; the newspaper had faded to a brittle yellow, much of the print was unreadable, but every time she looked at the picture she saw Jack's smile dancing when he handed her the article, saw the hope and pride in his eyes. _Look, mama, they used my winnin' picture for their rodeo article._ Of course her husband said not a word about it other than _think you're some kind a big shot now, eh?_, not even bothering to look at his son.

Mrs. Twist let her tears fall on the frame and said, "Well, son, I think it's high time that we all do right by you." She gathered Jack's remains at the kitchen table, unpacking an urn she had purchased with her meager savings a few years ago, going about the necessary but morbid task of re-uniting the pieces of her son. She was glad that she was too old to believe in sacrilegious acts, too old to think there could be anything wrong with the path that God guided her to. When she was done, she sent her prayers and love up to Heaven. No matter what John said, she knew that her son had gone straight from this earth into the Maker's waiting arms.

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Ennis blinked a few more times, trying to clear the drowsiness from his mind. He hadn't been able to sleep last night, and now he had to drive to Lightning Flat on a moment's notice. Not that he begrudged Mrs. Twist the right to ask; he had always told her that if she needed anything he would be there, and he had meant it. Part of what fueled him was guilt; he knew that he should have visited the Twists more often, instead of calling Mrs. Twist the few times a year when the ache in his belly got so bad he thought he'd never be able to draw another breath. Not to mention he had to be mighty tight-lipped to keep from spitting in Mr. Twist's smug face.

_Don't got a worry about that old son of a bitch any more_. But he did worry about what Mrs. Twist would do now. He couldn't imagine that her husband had left her much. He would do what he could to help, though he didn't have much to offer. Story of his life.

The sun became gradually brighter as he drove, casting reed-thin shadows over the landscape, giving everything a reddish tint. He pulled in front of the house as the afternoon began, casting a curious glance at the truck parked in his usual spot. His hands felt empty, and he fidgeted after he knocked on the door, wishing he had brought something to give Mrs. Twist. He didn't know what a person gave to a new widow.

"Come in, Ennis, come in. Thank you for coming, I hope it wasn't too inconvenient for you." Mrs. Twist went to the kitchen and began making him a cup of coffee, didn't bother to ask if he wanted cake.

"No, ma'am, not at all."

A woman's voice piped in from the direction of the bathroom, "Can I use this blue towel to wash my face, Mrs. Twist?"

"You go ahead, dear, that towel's fine."

She set out his coffee and another for her guest. Ennis didn't ask why he was here; he knew he would find out in due time. He enjoyed the cup; Mrs. Twist seemed to know just how he liked it without asking. The woman from the bathroom came into the kitchen, her face pink from being scrubbed and her blonde hair falling lank around her head. Ennis rose, leaning forward to offer his hand when Mrs. Twist said, "Ennis del Mar, I'd like you to meet Lureen Twist. Lureen, this is Ennis."

Ennis's hand froze midway to extension, and he stumbled as his feet began to catch up with his mind and turned him to the door. Mrs. Twist placed a gentle but firm hand on his elbow, fixing him with a stare that would stop a grizzly in its tracks. "Lureen brought something for you, Ennis." She gestured to an urn that was near the doorway.

It was all Ennis could do to look at the woman. This woman who had let Jack die alone on a dusty road, whose frigid voice had ripped away his last hope that he had misunderstood the clear message on the returned postcard. At first he couldn't even see her; he could only see the tire iron, could only hear the voice that haunted his dreams. Mrs. Twist patted him on the back and his breathing slowed, his vision cleared bit by bit. The first thing he noticed was that the woman looked beat down, about as beat down as he was. Her eyes were puffy, her lips chapped, and there was no defiance in her posture… only defeat. Ennis wasn't sure what he had expected from her, but this wasn't it. The disgust and condemnation he was ready to hurl at her was being reflected right back at him; they were two mirrors of one man.

After the old resentments, the lies, and the assumptions ebbed away, and the stark truth was all that lay between them, something close to respect but far from approval was reached. Ennis could not maintain a righteous anger against another person when he deserved most of it, and to be honest, he was real damn tired of fighting so hard. Breaking out of the reverie, Lureen nodded, gathered her things, and presented her hand to him matter-of-factly. "Nice to meet you, Ennis del Mar. Jack… well, he would a been real happy to know that I did. And I want to… thank you for what you're doin' for him. That's how he would a wanted things."

Ennis shook her hand, struggled for a moment and said in a quiet voice, "It's the least I can do."


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's Note:** Right after I wrote this I wasn't sure if it was completely awful or great. I have decided that I'm ambivalent about this, but it was very cathartic to write it. If you feel like this is a good place for the story to end, well, it is. The next two chapters are actually a sister story called "Always Enough." This can stand on its own, or you can continue on this little adventure of mine.

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Ennis slouched against the hollowed out log, the chipped ceramic urn placed carefully on his left. The sky was brilliantly clear, and Ennis remembered how Jack had said he could drown looking up into a day like this. The river ran swift and strong, its steady murmur a balm to Ennis's dry soul. Everywhere he looked on this mountain he found the shadows of Jack, the lopsided smile and playful laugh, faded imprints of their joy so fierce it had been etched into the landscape.

Ennis glanced at the urn, his gaze creeping back up to the sky. "Jack… I had a lot a time to think about what I wanted a tell you. But now that I'm here, it don't seem to matter. We both know that I done wrong by you, and I sure ain't the only one." Ennis rose, walked to the banks of the river, needing the distance, the safety that came with physical space.

"Truth is, Jack… you're enough to drive a man crazy. I reckon you knew, it, too. Afore I left your mamma's place, I gone to your daddy's headstone and, well… you can see what I done." He scruffed his boot in the grass, the cracked tip ripping a few pieces from the earth. He muttered something about how much new boots would cost him. "Shit, friend. All I can think about is how I wish you was here to keep makin' me howl at the moon. Go figger."

Ennis walked back to the urn, crouched low to pick it up, and brought it to the river's edge. He held it with reverence, closing his eyes when they could not contain his sorrow. His shoulders shook with silent agony, his breathing hitched at he tried to gain control. When he was on the verge of losing his control, he felt a familiar warmth against his back, the faint impression of an arm around his shoulder, a slight coarseness against his cheek, the lingering strains of melody that hummed deep in his bones. That lullaby he had taught Jack all those years ago. And the words slipped out, the words that Ennis had never said to Alma nor to his daughters, that he had been afraid to say even to himself. They were as natural as breathing, as true as life.

_Earth to earth._

Breathing deep, he released the ashes to the wind and water, giving Jack back to the earth, back to the Mountain they had never left.

_Ashes to ashes._

He floated on the breeze, danced in the water. And as he disappeared, he seemed to be asking Ennis with the patience of the earth and the sky, _Won't you join me?_

_Dust to dust._

"I'm already here, friend. Just waitin' for this old body a mine to catch up with the rest a me."

Ennis left Brokeback that day with a measure of peace in his weary heart. He had found no answers, no new beginnings, but he let go of just enough to lighten his burden, to last him until his final day.

It was finally enough to fill the space between what he knew and what he tried to believe.


	4. Chapter 4

**Author's Note:** This is a two-part piece called "Always Enough." It obviously runs along the same theme as the previous chapters. Frankly, I think "Enough to…" could have been fine without this addition, but those voices won't seem to leave my head. I think it's interesting that as I keep writing my pieces get shorter and shorter… maybe Proulx is finally starting to rub off a bit.

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Ennis del Mar fumbled to bed, half-in and half-out of this clothing, hardly caring enough to fully remove it. He was at a point beyond tired, the place a man reaches when life has sucked the marrow out of him and dropped the broken bones back onto the plate. He had been surprised when Junior had wished him a happy birthday last month during her call, had forgotten that there was anything significant attached to this rusty old body, thanked her awkwardly and changed the subject to something simpler.

Ennis lay like a stone, in the slippery half-trance state between sleep and awareness. His dreams were now the most vivid part of his life; flashes of color on a white canvas. Tonight, he knew, knew what was coming. It was the day he marked each year, a day that had been as unavoidable and irrevocable as every moment borne of it.

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"_Jack Twist."_

_Pause, hesistance. "Ennis."_

"_Your folks just stop at Ennis?"_

_Further pause. "…del Mar."_

"_Nice to know you, Ennis del Mar."_

The dream bore Ennis through the eternity of those cold mountain days. True to life, they passed too quickly, burned too brightly to stay lit. The first time, Ennis had been burned by those flames and tried to protect himself by smothering them. Now, they provided him with a soul-deep comfort, a warmth he could find no where else.

"_You gonna do this again next summer?"_

"_Maybe not… like I said, Alma and me's gettin' married in November…" as Ennis rattled off the words, something shifted, began to deviate._

"_You know Ennis, maybe we should go get ourselves a drink and see if we can't figger somethin' out." Jack slammed the car door shut, stepped close to Ennis, not touching him, but leaning close to Ennis's neck, his lips brushing against Ennis's overwrought skin. "I'm tired a goin' over this again and again. And I think it's about fuckin' time you said 'yes' to one a my offers. So how 'bout it, friend? You ready to try somethin' new? 'Cause I been ready since the second I laid my damn fool eyes on you." He leaned back, lightly touching Ennis's cheek, and understanding was in his every gesture._

_Ennis managed a barely perceptible nod and a shaky smile. Jack took his hands, and gave him a kiss that tasted of promise and sweet loss._

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For reasons unknown to the coroner, Ennis del Mar did not wake that morning. He was 69 years of age.

Ennis had never expected second chance, never thought he deserved one. But it was always enough to know; to know that Jack had given it to him when he hadn't even known to ask.


	5. Chapter 5

**Author's Note:** The conclusion to "Always Enough." I really love that the movie fleshed out Junior's character and I hope I did her justice. At the end of this is a sort of poem/stream-of-consciousness that emerged from writing these pieces. I really worked on my landscape descriptions here, so let me know if they turned out well :)

Thanks for reading!

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Alma Junior was lulled by the rhythm of her trek; pebbles crunched under her boots, the crisp air filled her lungs with a heady freshness, trees shading her path, making her shiver in the chill mountain morning and rub her hands together around the urn she carried. You want me there by sunrise, Daddy, I'll be there by sunrise, she said. The ash grey of the sky melted into a pink-tinged blue, shadows lazily gathered in the join between the lodgepole and the earth, and the birds started to stir, a few notes fluttering in the air like strings plucked in an empty room. She found the spot easily, set down the urn carefully, leaning it against the log, laid down her bag and got out her bottle of water, settled into the damp, malleable grass and pulled out an envelope from her jacket pocket. The script was carefully written, but mostly faded after the ten year wait in the lawyer's office.

_Junior,_

_I love you to pieces, little darling, and that aint gonna stop just cause I'm not around no more. Thank you._

The beginnings of a knowing smile twitched at Alma's mouth. She fingered the paper, held it up to the light and watched the rising sun glow through its well-worn creases, an image of her mother flashing in her thoughts, quickly pushed away. Alma had seen the hard, glassy look in her mother's eyes more times than she cared to remember, and neither she nor her father needed it today. She whiled away the day by telling her father stories, relating Francine Jr.'s latest anecdotes; how she would never fall asleep unless Kurt held her, how she still called Alma "amam" even though she knew better, how Kurt insisted on re-making the bed every day because Alma just couldn't seem to get the corners right. She explored the meadow, smelled the fecund secrets of this place, touched the crumbling bark of the trees, began to feel a bodily understanding of why her father wanted to be here, began to see why he always had the look of the mountains in his face, the wind in his body. Wordless knowledge percolated through Alma's thoughts like rainwater through gravel, purifying as it traveled, until it was distilled into its simplest parts.

As the day wore on, lavender bled into the sky, giving the sun a blood-red glow as it slid soundlessly behind the horizon. Alma stood by the river, urn in hand, and opened the second envelope from her coat. This missive was more hastily written, the ink relatively fresh on the paper.

_Junior,_

_You done a good thing for me today. I know that everything don't make sense right now, and after much thinking I decided I ought to tell you why. If you decide that you want the answers your mamma won't give you, its all here. But I always want you to remember this day you spent with me, because it meant more to me than most of my living days._

Alma replied, as if this were a conversation, "You don't owe me nothin', Daddy. Besides, I think enough people done passed their judgments on you already. Whatever you done, you done; that's all there is to it." Alma took a deep breath, allowed the paper to slip through her fingers and into the rushing waters, watching the current sweep her father's confessions into the distance. You know I understand, she said quietly. She held the urn in her two hands, saw that it was a vessel holding the remains of another vessel, and knew that the part of her father that had been too large for every room he entered, too large for marriage, was free in this wild land, with its lush plains and ocean deep skies. Alma judged the sunset to be at its most brilliant; it verged on descent, flirting with the mountaintops, and the sky blazed like the fire of heaven, golden and red flames skirting the surface like the writhing slicks of oil on water. She scattered the ashes, humming the lullaby her father had taught her when she was but a baby.

"I'm so glad I could bring you here, Daddy." She bit her lip, blinked through tears that were anything but straightforward. And there was no more to say, because Alma understood what was truly important in this life and the next: her father's love, and that's all there was to it.

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_There are beginnings, and there are ends. There is life and death, love and loss. Sometimes, though, it is the simplest answer that defines a moment, defines a lifetime; and only when we have found all we are, can we be free._

_When is it enough to love, enough to speak? When is it enough to be true, enough to open the deepest place of ourselves? When is it enough to be silent, to be apart? When is it enough to live truth, enough to find the beautiful imperfection of life?_

_The moments of our souls, the flashes of our humanity, and the aching beauty of our existence weave the fabric our beings; all that we touch is changed by us and we are changed by all that touches us; we can no more remove the day from the night than we can sadness from joy. We are, we are… and always, always are we enough._


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